Hopeless
by thegoblinjester
Summary: Denmark is feeling angsty and it's up to Norway to cheer him up. DenNor one-shot. Is only filed under the category "angst" because Den's being a drama queen.


_My first DenNor fanfic! Sorry if Denmark isn't in character, I think I'm better at Norway..._

* * *

I'm as good as dead. Heck, I was doomed from the moment I fell for him. There's no plausible way that he could ever love me. Those eyes, cold as liquid nitrogen, hold no feeling whatsoever for me. It's the worst, indifference. Because with hate, there is always a chance of love, but cold, cruel indifference is just that. Misery with no company.

Alone in my room, I can be me, and let this uncertainty show through the sunny exterior which, though always a part of me, is an impossible facade to keep up forever. They all know my darker side, the side which loves the feel of a battle ax in my hands and can even make Sve uneasy, but what they don't see is how weak the rest of me is because of it.

And now I'm being pathetic. He would agree with me, and probably add a few more choice adjectives to the mix. The name-calling and insults I can stand, because they're part of who he is, but the knowledge of my hopelessness kills me. I wish that I could just escape for a while. Not forever, but I'd just like some mental peace for a week or two, where I can just be near him and not have to worry about these stupid human emotions.

Of course he doesn't care. I don't deserve his concern. Even the king of the north doesn't deserve him, and I was always foolish to even hope. Here I am wallowing in misery, while he's probably doing something much better with his time. He always is. Never time enough to hold a conversation with me, or to let me do anything with him.

Sometimes I want to just give up and move on. Then I wouldn't have to suffer this anymore. Oh, how nice it would be not to care about the fact that he doesn't care, and never suffer those paper butterflies in my stomach, but I just can't. I can't let go, and I can't move on, and I can't do anything right. Finland always tries to help, since he knows who I love and he knows that it's not gonna happen, but there's one thing in his eyes which I just can't afford anymore.

It's hope.

You know what stupid thing I just did? I started a game of truth-or-dare. I was hoping to embarrass some of the other guys, or at least learn their secrets. My plan backfired. Sweden, that asshole, made it so both options were basically "confess", I think he had it figured out, too, and Norway was looking at me funny, and no part of me was ready to say anything of the kind, so, like a little kid, I ran to my bedroom with a lump in my throat.

And now I'm sitting here by the dresser, hugging my knees and fighting back tears, because I can't ever have him and he would never even _want _to have me, and I want to give up but the very idea of that disgusts me, and I want to die and I want to live and I want to forget and I'd like to remember and I'd like to actually be the me I am for everyone else, the happy arrogant me who doesn't look away from that blank gaze, and I just want this suffering to end.

Why is this so complicated? I just can't deal with it! I can't quit, I can't go on, I can only sit here and be melancholic. All I can think about is this mess I'm in, and him. Those steel blue eyes, and fair blond hair, and pale skin and expression fathomless and that damn cross pin that I gave him a while back and the little curl of hair and- here come the tears again. Now I'm shaking, and it's truly a miserable sight to behold. The proud and mighty Denmark reduced to a quivering puddle of stupid, human emotions.

I just wish- Oh god, someone's knocking at my door. I know that knock, that curt, to-the-point rap on the wood. Just my luck. Who else would it be? Just when I'm at my lowest, just when it's too late to put on my mask of arrogance, just when I want to be left alone, he knocks at my bedroom door.

"Leave me alone" I say shakily, trying to hide my sorrow. "Don't even bother."

"... Denmark?" He asks, still in his perfect little monotone. "Are you alright?"

The concern I'm certain he's feigning just makes it worse. _Kick me when I'm down, huh, fate? Just let me slip into a coma or something for a little while. _I think. I'm certain that I won't be able to talk to him without breaking down. I still have some pride left. Some.

"Fine, just fine. Please, just let me rot away and you can be free of me." I want to say, though it sounds a bit melodramatic, so instead, I say: "Uh-huh."

"Well, finish jerking off or whatever you're doing and come downstairs. A cake was baked and I don't think you'll want to miss your chance at pigging out." he tells me. I decide not to respond, since he's only up here because Finland told him to get me. What I really want is to hold him like there's no tomorrow, and run my fingers through his hair, and for him to feel even a fraction of what I feel.

"Are you watching _Titanic _again? You know that movie always messes with you." he says.

"No."

He tries the door handle. "Let me in." he says upon finding that it's locked.

"..." I say.

"Please."

I catch my breath there, for he's never said "please" just like that to me before.

"Just go and enjoy the cake," I say, "and I'll eat later."

"Mathias..." he says in a warning tone. He never uses my human name. Never. I bury my face in my hands and try to steady my breathing, because I do not want to start sobbing when he can hear.

"Go." I say again.

"... You're crying." he says. It's not a question, just a statement. I protest weakly, but it isn't helping my case at all.

"Mathias? What's wrong?" he asks, his tone growing in urgency. "Let me in!" he demands. I don't even bother moving. I think he's going to break down the door, but instead he just takes out a pin from his hair and successfully picks the lock. The door swings open and I can feel his icy gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. He walks over, and kneels next to me, and just sits there.

I do my best to collect myself, but then I look at him and another wave washes over me and it's all I can do to not start wailing. So, I try not to look at him, but that's very hard because he's right in my face and looking directly at me, and it's so hard not to just stare at him, that I just heave a sigh and flop back against the wall with my face to the ceiling. He looks slightly relieved, but I don't know why. I think he assumed the worst when I wouldn't let him in. He should know that I'd never bless him like that, to free him of the burden that is my presence is something that I just wouldn't do.

After I calm down, I still can't make eye contact with him. Frowning slightly, he grabs my hand and I'm just so numb that it doesn't even register.

"Tell me why you were crying." he says plainly and simply.

"You wouldn't care."

"Try me."

"I'm in love." I say honestly.

"Oh." he responds, looking just a tad peeved and uncomfortable. But he doesn't try to change the subject, and I don't feel like pressing it. "I've been down that road..." he adds.

"We all have."

"Whoever it is, they've really done a number on you. I can't recall you ever being this serious about this sort of thing." he says.

"Yeah..."

Another silence.

"You were wrong." he tell me after the pause.

"About...?" I ask. I'm always wrong about so many things, according to him, that I have trouble keeping track of them.

"You said I wouldn't care."

"You don't."

"Again, you're wrong. Does anything ever get through to you? Have you ever stopped to _think_? Denmark, I care so much that it almost hurts. I know that what I'm saying probably isn't even getting through that thick skull of yours, but it's true. And I can see by your open-mouthed gape that you never _have _considered that maybe I..." he trails off as he realizes what he's saying and his cheeks turn slightly red.

It's all I can do to say "that maybe you... what?" because this has to be a dream. My subconscious is tormenting me with the fact that this is all a dream and will never happen in real life. I pinch myself, but the too-wonderful-to-be-real dream remains.

"_That I love you_, moron." he says quickly, retaining eye contact and I can see goddamn _emotion _in his eyes, and I know that even my subconscious could never concoct something so blissfully amazing as this.

"I... uh..." I stammer, trying to say something, _anything_. I'm blushing, and the right-hand corner of my mouth is twisting into a sort of a smile, but the rest of my lips aren't cooperating, and he's still maintaining his intense gaze, and now I'm certain I've died and, miraculously, ended up in heaven or Valhalla or something.

Tentatively, he reaches out and touches my hair, with an expression that kills me and revives me at the same time. Now I realize that he's unsure of how I feel, or how I'm going to react, which I don't know, either, so I decide to improvise, like always, and I suddenly feel a whole lot more like me again.

And, of course, "me" doesn't sit there, blushing and stammering, while an uncertain Norge looks at me like _that_.

"Love ya too, Norway~" I croon, wrapping my arms around him and smiling a smile which is much softer than my usual one, but seems more fitting.

Then comes the real shock of the day. You know what he does? Norway _pushes _me up against the wall and _kisses _me full on the mouth.

_Kisses _me.

I'm not expecting _that_, coming from the Nordic who hates it when I brush against his shoulder, let alone hug him, so it takes me a moment to find my senses and reciprocate the kiss which, by the way, was the most amazing thing I've ever experienced.

After we broke apart, he gave me a small smile, and I _had _to hug him again.

"Hey, Norge?"

"What."

"I'll have that cake now."


End file.
